"Landscape with a Hundred Turns"
When you turned into a hundred rooms,
I returned each month as a door that opened only one.
When you turned into a hundred rooms, the wind flung
through each of them wailing and left a hundred songs in hopes
you would return for it and me.
And once, finding a doe locked up,
the trees blued up the mountain pass,
I understood you had transformed into your multiple,
as the rain is different each step from the moon.
Sleeping in a hundred rooms, a hundred dreams of you appear.
Though by day, your voice has frozen into standing stones.
When you turned into a hundred rooms, I met with a mirror
in each eye your growing absence.
When I moved, the shadows without you followed me.
In the hundred rooms, I cannot pick one,
for each combines into the other where I piece-by-piece
the shadows you have ceased to remember.
As the rain is different each day of the year,
when I turned for you and hoped you'd return to me,
was that I who left and you who remain the same?
For when you changed, I changed the furniture in the rooms.
A hundred birds flew over 100 fields.
A mountain flowed into a hundred rivers then ended.
In a hundred rooms, I turned and turned,
hoping to return to you.
Oh, the chrysanthemums grew in the hundreds rooms.
Far in the past and far in the future
were those numinous and echoing stars.